


My lips on yours, light

by lbmisscharlie



Series: White Writing [3]
Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-21 06:33:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3681624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lbmisscharlie/pseuds/lbmisscharlie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their mornings have never been like this. If Peggy’s not rushing off to work, then Angie is; they’ve rarely had time to snatch a shared bite of toast, except on the spare weekend here and there. As Angie flips eggs in her pan, she glances through the kitchen door to the sofa, where Peggy has absently opened one of Angie’s crime novels and isn’t really reading it. It feels nice – warm, promising – the weeks spreading ahead of them, snug in their house.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My lips on yours, light

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Carol Ann Duffy's "White Writing":
> 
> No vows written to wed you,  
> I write them white,  
> my lips on yours,  
> light in the soft hours of our married years.

Angie stumbles down the stairs, still tying her robe closed. Years of achingly early breakfast shifts at the L&L had never quite succeeded in making her into the sort of person who is chipper in the mornings. At the base of the stairs, she flips on the light switch to the living room. Peggy stirs on the sofa; that she is still asleep is a clear indication of the power of whatever little pills the hospital had prescribed. 

“Mornin’, sunshine,” Angie says as she crosses the room. Peggy blinks up at her, then turns, rubs her face against the worn flannel at her shoulder. She hums, disgruntled.

“I’ll make coffee,” Angie promises, leaning to kiss Peggy’s temple, where her hair falls over her face. 

By the time Angie returns with two mugs – one black, two sugars, one with milk – Peggy has pulled herself to sitting. She has a little more color than yesterday, pinkness in her cheek chasing away a bit of the wan paleness she’s had since leaving the hospital. 

“This sofa is damned uncomfortable,” she says, taking her mug. She edges over enough to let Angie perch on the edge. 

“You’ll be more mobile soon enough,” Angie says, in meager consolation. She doesn’t say how empty the bed upstairs feels, how she keeps reaching, and reaching, for Peggy’s arms to wrap around her. Peggy hums again, sips her coffee. “You’re feeling better,” Angie says.

“I am,” Peggy says, with a small tip of the corner of her mouth. “Hungry, even.”

Angie snorts into her mug. “Are you hinting at something?” 

Peggy shrugs. “Stating a fact.”

Their mornings have never been like this: at the Griffith, at Howard’s country home, at their first apartment in Washington when SHIELD started, and now here in their home. If Peggy’s not rushing off to work, then Angie is; they’ve rarely had time to snatch a shared bite of toast, except on the spare weekend here and there. As Angie flips eggs in her pan, she glances through the kitchen door to the sofa, where Peggy has absently opened one of Angie’s crime novels and isn’t really reading it. It feels nice – warm, promising – the weeks spreading ahead of them, snug in their house.

Angie knows they’ll be climbing up the walls soon enough, so she doesn’t feel guilty for enjoying it now. 

With some breakfast in her, Peggy is fortified, eyes brighter and back straighter. Angie has pulled over an armchair and eats with her elbows on her knees, plate in one hand. Peggy eats voraciously, grimacing with a too-big swallow here and there, but clearing her plate. 

“God,” she says, as she sets her plate on her blanket-covered knees. “God, I feel better.” 

Angie grins, takes her plate. “Good enough to move around for a bit? Go outside?”

“Good enough to tap dance,” Peggy says, grinning. The bruise at her cheek has turned red, splotchy. 

“You might break your other leg,” Angie jokes, thinking of that audition back in ’47, the one she’d tried to learn tap dancing for and ended up with no part, bruised toes, and sore shins. 

“I’m far more graceful than you.” Angie wrinkles her nose, presses her elbow against Peggy’s forearm – a gentle jostle. “You’re supposed to be humoring me; I’m an injured woman.”

“Not that injured,” Angie says, though a now-familiar tightening grips her gut. 

“No,” Peggy says, softly. “And feeling better.” She reaches for Angie, twisting her hand into the front of Angie’s pajamas, tugging her closer. Angie grins, leans in close. Their lips press together; Angie’s are dry, Peggy’s chapped, their breaths both stale. 

Peggy’s hand twists harder, a fist between Angie’s breasts, knuckles to her sternum, hard, steady. Angie whimpers in her mouth and shifts her knees; her plate clatters to the ground. “You’re making a mess,” Peggy says against her mouth. 

“A mess of _something_ ,” Angie says, catching Peggy’s lip between her teeth, feeling the way she gasps. It’s not that they haven’t been touching – Angie’s hands on Peggy’s back, her shoulders, her arm, lifting her leg onto the couch and lowering her onto the toilet – but Angie hasn’t allowed herself to think beyond such basic moments of caring. But now – the high flush in Peggy’s cheeks, not fever but want, and the way her knuckles dig into her chest, and the warm exhale of breath across Angie’s lips – 

She stands. Peggy’s cast presses against the back of the sofa, pillows tucked up against her bruised side. Angie leans in, bracing one hand behind Peggy, against the arm of the sofa, and kisses her again. Warmth crawls up her neck; Peggy’s hands are on the buttons of her shirt; her knees tremble. 

Her pajamas are men’s, and too big, and the top falls from her shoulders easily as Peggy loosens the buttons. Mouth on her nipple, Peggy cups Angie’s bare breast and digs her fingers into the soft flesh, desire in her heavy grasp. Angie gasps, a soft keening moan catches in her throat, and drops her head, falling forward against Peggy’s mouth. 

With her free hand, Peggy presses against the bare skin at the small of Angie’s back, bringing her closer until Angie half-kneels, one leg tucked up between Peggy’s thighs and the other bent awkwardly against the side of the sofa. With a huffing, frustrated laugh, Peggy pulls away long enough to gingerly arrange herself, giving Angie just enough purchase to kneel, straddling her good leg. 

“Just where I want you,” Peggy whispers, looking up at Angie. Her mouth is flushed, wet, and the corners of her eyes still crusty with sleep. Her hair is greasy, and limp, and looks awful. She bends her knee, rocking her thigh right up between Angie’s legs, and Angie groans, and presses down against her. 

Underneath her, Peggy’s thigh is solid, hard, untrembling. Unbroken. She drops her forehead to Peggy’s, breathes against her mouth. Peggy groans, grips Angie’s knee, thrusts her leg upward. Angie ruts against her, desperation coiling tight, and whimpers as Peggy reaches between them, awkward angles and fumbling, and shoves her hand into Angie’s pants. 

Since the first, since the Griffith a long decade and a half ago, Peggy’s fingers have always been sure and certain on the tiny, wonderful parts of Angie’s body. She slides against her cunt, fingers made slippery, and finds her clit with the same movement that always catches Angie on a gasp. 

“Just – please –” Angie says. Every bit of her feels so wound, so tight, and she wants to fall apart. Peggy nods; her hand tightens on Angie’s thigh; her fingers work faster, quick and hard and insistent; Angie rocks against her.

“God –” she says, then again – “god –” and Peggy’s fingers dig into her flesh. She comes gasping, shaking as she falls against Peggy’s arm, against her chest. 

Peggy’s breath flutters her hair, cooling her sweat-damp nape. “I’ve missed that,” Peggy says, simply, and kisses the curl of her ear.

“You’re grievously injured,” Angie responds, letting her forehead rest against Peggy’s shoulder. Peggy only hums, but when Angie pulls back, there’s a weary tightness around the corners of her eyes. 

Angie shifts to one side. “How’s your leg?” 

“Peachy,” Peggy says, and kisses her on the nose. “Other parts of me, though –” She smiles, chasing away the fatigue. 

“Is that how it is?” Angie drags her hand down Peggy’s chest. She wears a nightgown which is, frankly, hideous, but underneath it she’s naked, and Angie cups the heft of her breast, watches how her lashes flutter as she drags her thumb over the nipple. Leaning in, Angie nips, just once, at Peggy’s jawline, then pulls back, shoving herself off the sofa. 

Peggy makes a displeased little groan, but hums as Angie kneels to the side of the sofa and pulls the blankets away. 

“This nightgown is awful,” she says, pushing it up Peggy’s thighs. Faded flannel and mumsy lace and it quite frankly covers far too much of her body. 

“I’d be happy not to be wearing it,” Peggy says drily; the comment cuts many ways. 

“I’ll do what I can,” Angie murmurs, and lifts Peggy’s leg up to hook over her shoulder. She kisses her inner knee, where pale, wrinkled skin marks an old scar. 

Two weeks without bearing weight has left Peggy strictly on the downstairs sofa, for Angie hasn’t yet wanted to risk trying to maneuver them up the stairs together, and so in the crease of her knee Angie tastes the coating of salt days of immobile cold sweats have given her. Peggy shifts impatiently; Angie glances up at her and raises an eyebrow, leading her mouth northward. 

All of her is pungent, warm; her skin a little sweaty under Angie’s hands. With one, she holds Peggy’s calf in its precarious balance on her shoulder; with the other, she parts the thicket of hair between Peggy’s legs. Tangled, and tacky against her fingers; she leans in, and covers Peggy’s cunt with her mouth; pungent, and hot against her tongue. 

Peggy’s hips jerk against her mouth. She is soaking, her fluids coating Angie’s mouth and sticking wetly to her chin, and Angie circles her clit and sucks, just this edge of too hard. 

“Oh – god –” Peggy’s hand twists in her hair, holding her close, and her pubic bone shoves against her jaw and Angie sucks. When Peggy comes, her muscles clench and her thigh knocks against Angie’s cheek and her whole body heaves in a gasp. 

She goes very still, not releasing Angie’s hair; Angie has a short, panicked thought for Peggy’s leg and ribs, broken and fragile, but with a long, released breath Peggy lets her go and collapses back into the sofa.

“Let’s do that every day until I’m allowed to move.” Peggy slumps her head against the arm of the sofa, eyes to the ceiling. Angie drops her chin onto Peggy’s bare thigh, and moves to wipe her mouth with the back of her palm. “No – no –” Peggy grapples ineffectually for Angie’s hand, tugs at her.

Angie rolls her eyes. “You’re filthy,” she says, and shoves up off her knees to lean over Peggy, who pulls her down with one hand on the back of her neck and kisses her hungrily. “And you need a bath,” she adds, in a murmur against Peggy’s mouth.

“Perhaps later,” Peggy says, scooting into the sofa and pulling Angie down next to her. “For now, let’s enjoy my R&R.”


End file.
